Chapter 11
JACKSON
Idon't sleep. I can't. Because every time I close my eyes, I see Maya on that bathroom floor with a blade in her hand, talking about arteries like she's discussing the weather.
She's been asleep for a few hours now, curled on her side facing me, one hand tucked under her pillow. Max has wedged himself between us.
The sun's starting to rise. Light filters through the curtains, painting everything in soft shadows. I should go back downstairs before Emma and Chase wake up, to maintain the illusion that nothing happened last night.
But I can't make myself move.
Maya's breathing is steady. Her face is relaxed in a way I haven't seen since she arrived. The exhaustion's still there, dark circles, hollow cheeks, but some of the tension has eased from her features.
She told me everything. The rape. The firing. How she blames herself for Lily's death. How she's been barely holding on, how close she came to not holding on at all.
And I just sat there and listened while she fell apart.
My phone buzzes quietly on the nightstand. I grab it before it can wake her.
It's just a text from Jenkins about practice schedules. I ignore it.
Maya stirs, her eyes fluttering open, unfocused for a moment before landing on me.
"You stayed," she whispers.
"I said I would."
She closes her eyes again. "What time is it?"
"Just past six."
"You should go. Emma will—"
"I don't care what Emma thinks." I shift, careful not to disturb Max. "How're you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck." She opens her eyes again. "And like I told you way too much last night."
"You didn't."
"I had a full breakdown on the bathroom floor, Jackson. That's pretty much the definition of too much."
"You needed to fall apart. You've been holding it together for months." I keep my voice steady, gentle. "And I'm glad you did it with me instead of alone."
She doesn't respond, just studies my face like she's trying to figure out if I mean it.
"I'm going to find you a therapist," I say. "Someone who specializes in sexual assault and trauma. Someone good."
"I told you, I can't afford—"
"And I told you I'll handle it." I shift onto my elbow so I'm looking down at her properly. "You need professional help, Maya. Last night proved that. So I'm going to find you someone, and I'm going to pay for it, and you're going to go."
"You can't just—"
"Yes, I can. And I am." My tone leaves no room for argument. "You can fight me on this, but you'll lose."
Something flickers across her face. Not anger. Something softer. Like relief that someone's making decisions when she can't.
"Okay," she says quietly.
"Okay?"
"Okay. I'll go. If you can find someone."
The tension in my chest eases. "I'll find someone."
Footsteps in the hallway. Chase's voice, then Emma's, both heading downstairs. I can hear Ethan babbling about something, probably demanding breakfast.
"You should go," Maya says. "Before they see you here."
She's right. But leaving her feels wrong.
"I'll be downstairs if you need anything."
She nods, and I slip out of bed, grab my phone, and head for the door. Before leaving, though, I pause.
"Maya?"
"Yeah?"
"Last night doesn't change anything between us. You're still Emma's best friend. You're still welcome here. You're still—" I stop, not sure how to finish that sentence without saying too much.
"Still what?"
"Still someone I care about."
I leave before she can respond.
Downstairs, I pull out my laptop and start searching. Therapists in Hartford. Specialization in sexual assault. Taking new patients. I cross-reference reviews, availability, and insurance policies, even though I'll be paying out of pocket.
The list is long. I narrow it down to five with the best reviews and availability, then email all of them explaining the situation: friend needs help, trauma from assault, urgency.
Three respond within an hour.
Dr. Rebecca Mills. Trauma specialist. Twenty years of experience. Can see Maya this afternoon if needed.
I book the appointment without hesitation.
Emma and Chase are in the kitchen when I head upstairs. Emma's making breakfast while Ethan dumps cereal on the floor with gleeful abandon. Chase is reading something on his phone, occasionally reaching down to pick up the cereal Ethan's throwing.
"Morning," Emma says. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep."
She gives me a look, the one that says she knows I'm not telling her everything. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just thinking about the game tomorrow."
Lie. But a necessary one.
Maya appears at the top of the stairs a few minutes later. She's changed into clean clothes: jeans and a hoodie that swallows her frame. Her curls frame her face naturally, loose and unstyled. She looks exhausted but present.
"Morning," she says, heading straight for the coffee maker.
"How're you feeling?" Emma asks, her voice careful.
"Fine. Just tired."
"You sure? You looked rough last night after the Tyler thing." Emma sets down her spatula and turns to face Maya fully. "And we're going to talk about that at some point, whether you like it or not. What he did was wrong, and I will have words with him."
"Em, it's fine—"
“It's not fine. He caused you to have a panic attack. That's not fine." Emma's voice is firm. "But we don't have to talk about it right this second if you're not ready."
"I'm fine, Em. Promise."
More lies. More performance. But at least now I know what's underneath, at least I can see the cracks in the facade.
"Maya." I set my coffee down. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
She follows me through the kitchen and out the back door to the patio. The October air is crisp, cold enough to see our breath. I close the door behind us, giving us privacy.
"I found you a therapist. Dr. Rebecca Mills. She has an opening at two this afternoon."
Maya's eyes widen. "Today?"
"Yeah. I explained it was urgent. She said she could fit you in."
"Jackson, I don't know if I'm ready—"
"You're not. But that doesn't matter. You need help, and it's available. So we're going."
"We?"
"I'll drive you. Wait while you're in session. Drive you home." I watch her face carefully, looking for signs of resistance or fear. "Unless you don't want me there."
She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers twisting together. "You'd really do that? Sit in a parking lot for an hour while I talk to a stranger about my trauma?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Because I love you. Because watching you spiral is killing me. Because I'd do anything to help you heal.
"Because you matter, Maya. And because you deserve help."
She looks away, blinking rapidly. "Okay. Two o'clock."
"Two o'clock."
The rest of the morning passes in a strange haze. Emma takes Ethan to some toddler music class. Chase goes to the gym. Maya stays in her room with the door closed, and I resist the urge to check on her every five minutes.
I spend the time going deeper into the research I started before, past the basic articles about supporting survivors and into the harder stuff—the clinical studies, the detailed breakdowns of trauma responses, the forums where survivors talk about what actually helps versus what makes things worse.
This time, I'm not just skimming for quick answers.
I'm taking notes. Saving articles. Learning the difference between helping and enabling, between being supportive and being overbearing.
Understanding that recovery isn't linear, that there will be good days and bad days, and days where she takes three steps back after moving forward.
One article hits harder than the others. It's about how the people around survivors often want to fix everything, to make the trauma disappear, but that's not how it works. She has to do the work. I can only be there while she does it.
It's harder than I expected, accepting that I can't just make this better for her.
At 1:30 p.m., I knock on Maya's door.
"Ready?"
She emerges looking terrified. "No. But let's go anyway."
The drive to Dr. Mills' office takes twenty minutes through downtown Hartford traffic. Maya's silent the whole way, hands twisted in her lap. I want to reach over and hold her hand, but I don't know if touch is okay yet, don't want to trigger another panic attack.
The office is in a professional building downtown with lots of windows and comfortable furniture in the waiting room. Soft colors, calming art on the walls, the kind of space designed to put people at ease.
Maya signs in with the receptionist while I find a seat near the window.
"Mr. Anderson?" The receptionist looks at me with kind eyes. "Dr. Mills wanted me to let you know she appreciates you reaching out. It takes courage to ask for help on behalf of someone you care about."
"Thanks."
Maya's called back at exactly two o’clock. She looks back at me once before disappearing down the hallway, her expression a mix of fear and determination.
Then it's just me in the waiting room with outdated magazines and a fish tank in the corner where two goldfish circle endlessly.
I don't read, don't look at my phone, don't do anything but sit here and wait. My knee bounces with nervous energy until I force myself to stop.
An hour feels like three years.
When Maya finally emerges, her eyes are red and puffy, but her shoulders are straighter. Dr. Mills walks her out, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and graying hair pulled back in a neat bun.
"Maya's agreed to weekly sessions," Dr. Mills says to me. "Same time next week. And Maya, call if you need anything before then. Day or night. I mean that."
Maya nods, her voice thick when she speaks. "Thank you."
In the car, neither of us speaks for the first five minutes. I navigate through traffic, giving her space to process whatever just happened in that office.
"How was it?" I ask finally when we're on a quieter street.
"Hard." Her voice is rough from crying. "Really fucking hard. But good, I think. She didn't judge me. Didn't tell me I should be over it by now or that I need to just move on."
"Good."
"She said what happened wasn't my fault. That freezing is a normal trauma response. That my brain was trying to protect me." Maya wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I don't know if I believe her yet. But maybe eventually I will."
"You will."
More silence, but it's comfortable now. The kind of quiet that doesn't need filling.
Then—
"Thank you, Jackson. For finding her. For paying. For waiting. For all of it."
"You don't have to thank me."
"Yes, I do." She turns to look at me, and I glance over, catching the sincerity in her expression. "I don't know why you're doing this. Why you care this much. But thank you."
Because I love you.
The words sit on my tongue, heavy and dangerous. I swallow them back.
"You're welcome."
We pull into the driveway. Emma's car is back, which means she's home with Ethan. Maya makes no move to get out, just sits there staring at the house.
"I'm going to keep going," she says finally. "To therapy. I'm going to try to get better."
"I know."
"And I'm going to stop cutting. Or at least try. Dr. Mills gave me some alternatives. Things to do when the urge gets bad." She pulls out a small card with a list scribbled on it. "Ice cubes. Rubber bands. Drawing on my skin instead of cutting it."
Relief floods through me. "That's good."
"I'm still going to have bad days. Still going to struggle. This isn't going to be a quick fix." She looks at me. "She said recovery takes time. That there will be setbacks."
"I know that too."
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "Thank you for not giving up on me."
Then she's out of the car, heading inside before I can respond.
I sit in the driveway for a few minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel, her touch still burning on my skin.
She thanked me for not giving up on her, as if there was ever a chance I would.
I'd do anything for her. Sit in parking lots. Pay for therapy. Hold her while she falls apart. Drive her to appointments. Research trauma recovery until my eyes blur. Whatever she needs, whenever she needs it.
Because somewhere along the way, protecting Maya stopped being about duty or friendship or even the love I've been carrying for years.
It’s become the only thing that matters.
And that terrifies me almost as much as finding her with that blade last night.